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Friday, June 1, 2012

saw the sad shire horses walking home in the sodium light

Milking this morning was a searing white-hot disaster, and I am forced to conclude that my ladies don't care for the musical stylings of Sting.  Or maybe it's too sad for them to hear about a lonely boy losing his father and being offered empty platitudes by callous priests.  

Does it bother you when Wallace says "camembert" like "cammumburt?"  Not me.  It's under the British cloak of respectability along with jalapenos said like "juh-laa-puh-nose" with a hard J and aluminum pronounced "al-yew-min-ee-um."

I'm waiting for my cheese cultures to arrive.  I'm stressed out.  What if I ruin all that milk?  I don't even dare buy molds yet until I prove that I deserve them.  I'll use yogurt containers instead.  I'm way more freaked out about this than I was about the gouda.  White bloomy rind!  It's daunting. 

I had a dream I found a great big caterpillar, and I was just about to smash it when I thought, "Maybe it is a swallowtail caterpillar," and then I felt obligated to not smash it, but I wasn't happy about it.  Caterpillars are disgusting and I hate them most of the time.  I'm okay with Woolly Bears and milkweed worms, but I don't want to touch them or anything.  Larval stages of anything are pretty gross. 

We ate Swiss chard for dinner yesterday and it was sublime.  A little bit of lard, some salt, our new bargain pot, good stuff.  Willa ate a huge helping of it, which gives me hope for her future.  I worry about her, because it seems evident that she's going to end up washing herself with a rag on a stick.  So much junk food.  She's like a truffle pig for it.  

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